


All who suffer from the heart

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Community: lewis_challenge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lewis Summer Challenge 2016, Lewis is a BAMF, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even seemingly catastrophic experiences can be transformed by another person's kindness  . . .</p><p> </p><p>“Though sympathy alone can't alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable.”<br/>― Dracula, Bram Stoker</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/gifts), [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).



> Written for the Lewis Summer Challenge 2016.
> 
> This story takes place in a world inhabited by humans and vampires, but not quite the same world as the setting for my previous dalliance with vampires: [To Thaw the Frost of Years](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2071251?view_full_work=true). Furthermore, in this universe, one of the main characters no longer works as a police officer.
> 
> As you might expect in a vampire AU, there's a certain amount of blood about the place, but it's not excessive or gratuitous.  
> In the notes at the end of the fic, there is a spoilery warning about a potentially triggering moment.
> 
> Thanks to Lindenharp for her encouraging and helpful feedback. As ever, all muddles and misplaced punctuation are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Thanks to MistressKat and Pushkin666 for continuing to organise the Lewis Challenges - you play such an important role in encouraging creativity in the Lewis fandom - this one's for you :-)

Robbie Lewis packs what he needs in a small black rucksack. A pack of blood, cold from the fridge and already starting to mist with condensation. A penknife with a cream coloured Bakelite handle, that originally had been his dad’s. The handle used to have a criss-cross pattern etched into it, but it’s been almost entirely rubbed away through years of use. When he’s feeling restless, though, Robbie still runs his thumb and forefinger back and forth over the last faint etched lines of the familiar pattern. 

Robbie goes to the cupboard where he keeps his work stuff and gets out a wooden stake, about six inches long and sharpened to a point at one end. He hates the thing. As a human working as a vampire sitter, he has to carry it to get professional insurance, but he’s never used it and doesn’t ever intend to. He’s supposed to be looking after his vampire clients, not killing them. He shoves the stake and the usual contract paperwork in the backpack, pats his pocket for car keys, and heads out the door.

___________________________

**  
_Half an hour earlier_   
**

 

The phone rings as he’s washing up his plate and mug from breakfast.

“Mr Lewis, this is Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent, from Oxfordshire Police.”

It feels like all the air has been squeezed out of him. He hasn’t spoken to any coppers for a couple of years now, and he doesn’t even know Jean Innocent, though he knows of her; he knows she runs his old nick. She pops up on the telly every now and again, at press conferences for major cases. He stands in his living room watching the news sometimes, seeing the strain on the officers’ faces as they report a life not saved. He sees, remembers, the utter exhaustion, the anger, the soul-crushing weight of defeat when a case has gone badly. He remembers feeling like crap, and having to face the press and the public, having already faced the family—the worst job any copper ever has to do. He remembers standing there, at press conferences, feeling like six kinds of shit, guilty but relieved that it’s your Chief Super, not you, who’s going to get publically crucified. 

The few times he’s seen her, Jean Innocent has come across as direct, competent; able to handle the packs of reporters baying for blood. Though you can’t really tell from a couple of minutes in front of the cameras—she might just have learned a few tricks from a media training course. But he sees Laura Hobson every few months for a drink, and she seems to think Innocent’s pretty good at her job. It’s not a job Robbie would ever have wanted, even when he thought of himself as a career copper. 

“How can I help, Ma’am?”

“I know you used to be an officer, Mr Lewis, but you don’t need to call me Ma’am.”

“Sorry; old habits. Would you rather I didn’t?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve been called much worse.”

He doesn’t doubt it. “How can I help?”

“I understand you’re a Vampire Transition Consultant, now?”

“I am, but to save your time, I have to tell you, I don’t usually take on criminal cases. In my experience, the individuals involved tend to be more interested in getting brownie points with the courts, than actually learning how to be good, law-abiding vampires.”

She sighs. “I’m not phoning about a criminal, Mr Lewis; I’m phoning about an officer; a detective.”

 _Oh_. “I see.” He grabs a bit of paper to start making notes. 

“Ten days ago, one of my detective sergeants, James Hathaway, was forcibly turned by a vampire he was attempting to interview.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? I don’t remember reading anything in the Mail about it.”

She hesitates. “No, you wouldn’t. There’s an ongoing investigation and I want to keep everything out of the press until the outcome is clear. I need to know I can rely on your discretion, Robert.”

“Yes, of course.”

“James Hathaway is an interesting man. He has a first from Cambridge, a remarkable mind—an extraordinary ability to sift through vast amounts of information and to make connections no one else would ever get near. And he seems to know something about everything. Or if he doesn’t he’ll do a night’s homework, and the next day he’ll talk convincingly to scholars about their research into Rasputin’s cousins, or early Persian botany. He’s solved more than one case due to his knowledge of New Testament Greek.”

“New Testament Greek, Ma’am?”

“I know; I know. I’ve made him sound like some sort of ivory tower don, playing at being a detective, but he isn’t like that at all. He’s a copper who happens to be a very good match for a certain kind of Oxford criminal. We’re lucky to have him.” 

A ghost from the past momentarily emerges from the shadows of Robbie’s kitchen, pint glass in hand. “I can see that, Ma’am. I was lucky enough to work with someone with a remarkable mind, too. He had similar leanings to Hathaway, by the sounds of things—crosswords and Latin, poetry, that sort of thing. Very handy when you’re investigating Oxford types.”

“Quite. Well, unfortunately, I had Hathaway partnered with a less than remarkable DI.” 

Robbie notes her language, the way she makes her responsibility for Hathaway’s working arrangements clear, and he respects her for it. “Who was the DI?”

“Prentice. I think he arrived after you left.”

“Must have—I don’t know him. What happened?”

“Prentice had a chip on his shoulder about Hathaway’s background, and he let it cloud his judgment. He put James in a situation he should never have been in without back-up. They were investigating the murder of a young post doc student, Olivia Jacoby, who had been repeatedly stabbed. James suspected that the academic supervisor of the victim—a vampire called Smythson—was the killer; that he’d stabbed her to cover up the evidence of a vampire attack. Prentice wouldn’t take Hathaway’s theory seriously because it was based on what he considered to be a trivial academic argument between Olivia and Smythson.”

“An argument about what, if you don’t mind me asking?” He can feel the detective in him waking up and having a bit of a stretch.

“An argument about authorship of the first complete English translation of the Policraticus by John of Salisbury.”

“I see.” It’s hard to know which of the many aspects of his ignorance to air first. “Translation from what?”

“From Latin.” He’s grateful she doesn’t add _obviously_ in a long-suffering tone, as Morse would have done. 

“According to Hathaway, the Policraticus was written in the eleven hundreds, but, for some obscure reason, there’s never been a complete English translation, until now. In their small field of study, it’s a big deal, I understand.”

“I can imagine, Ma’am.”

“Anyway, Prentice wouldn’t take Hathaway seriously and insisted that an ex-boyfriend was more likely to be the killer. He told Hathaway to interview Smythson about the ex. Hathaway was reluctant—says he cited the guidelines on humans interviewing vampire persons of interest. Prentice told him a ‘proper copper’ wouldn’t make a fuss about a quick chat with a harmless don. Told him to _grow a pair_ , apparently.”

“Charming.”

“I know.” She goes quiet, and Robbie lets her collect her thoughts. When she starts again, she sounds weary. “I’m sure James has been on the receiving end of many disparaging comments about his background, over the years. I think he felt he had to prove himself to Prentice, though, I assure you, he has nothing to prove. His work is frequently beyond what I would expect of a DS . . . even if his way of going about things is a little idiosyncratic at times.” She pauses again, briefly. “Anyway, Smythson panicked when it became clear Hathaway understood more about the situation than he’d anticipated, and . . . well, here we are.”

“Hathaway was turned rather than killed?”

“There’s no doubt Smythson intended to kill him, of course, but he hadn’t counted on Hathaway being able to fight back to the extent he did. Hathaway broke Smythson’s nose.”

Robbie whistles softly. “Did he? Impressive. Not a lot of humans can inflict that kind of damage on a vampire.”

“Indeed. But Smythson’s nose bled profusely and obviously some of his blood must have got into a cut or bite on Hathaway, starting the turning process. Apparently there was some sort of commotion in the corridor outside Smythson’s office—probably just students messing around—and Smythson did a runner before he could . . . well, he certainly would have killed James if he hadn’t thought they were about to be interrupted.”

“Thank God he didn’t get a chance to finish the job.”

“I’m not sure Hathaway would agree with you.” She sounds grim.

“He’s not taking it well?”

“That would be an understatement.”

They’ll need to get to all that in a minute. “Was Hathaway found by someone?”

“Yes. A colleague of Smythson’s found him on the office floor, half-turned and writhing in agony. Smythson was picked up half an hour later, waiting for a train to London.”

“And where was Prentice, while Hathaway was being attacked?”

There’s a moment’s silence, then, “In the pub.”

 _Bastard._ “That’s not good.”

“No. Obviously Prentice has been suspended, pending the formal outcome of the investigation.”

Robbie understands she can’t tell him whether Prentice is going to face criminal charges or not. He bloody well should do, as far as Robbie’s concerned, but he knows how difficult it is to get negligence charges to stick in the police force. He moves them onto matters they can discuss. “Do you want to tell me how Hathaway is now, Ma’am?” He hears her take in a deep breath and then sigh.

“He’s refusing to feed.”

 _Bugger_. “He hasn’t fed at all?”

“He says not, and I believe him.”

“But you said he was turned ten days ago.”

“Yes. I know.”

“That’s a very long time for a new vampire, any vampire for that matter, to go without feeding. If what he says is true, he must be in a terrible state.”

“He is.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in a cell.”

 _Oh Christ_. “What did he do? If he attacked someone, I’m not sure there’s much I can do to help right now. He’ll have to be referred by the court. There are special regulations, even for police officers. I’m sure you know that.”

“He didn’t attack anyone. He brought himself in when he felt he could no longer guarantee the safety of the humans around him. He insisted we put him in a cell. As you can imagine, it was the last thing I wanted to do, but I thought he might be persuaded to feed.”

“But that hasn’t happened.”

“No. He can be a rather stubborn individual; very determined, especially about what he considers to be ethical matters.”

“Ethical?” Robbie’s heart sinks.

She sighs. “He keeps referring to himself as a monster. Primarily, I think he’s frightened that if he starts feeding on human blood, he’ll come to crave it and at some point will lose control and forcibly feed from someone. He would rather starve than begin what he sees as a process that could lead to him harming someone.”

“So, it’s not a downright objection to human blood—a revulsion kind of thing, or a religious objection? It’s more a fear of losing control?”

“Well, he hasn’t said he thinks the idea of feeding on blood is revolting, per se. It seems to be more that he views himself as revolting, that it’s shameful for him to want to feed. And a real terror of losing control and hurting someone. I think self-control is very important to James.” She hesitates. “I couldn’t guarantee there isn’t a religious basis to some of this . . . James was in training to be a Catholic priest for a while; before he joined the force. His beliefs, whatever they are these days, might be influencing his current decision-making.”

 _Great_. That’s just what he needs—a God-bothering, shame-ridden, starving vampire. A lot of Robbie’s job is helping new vampires learn restraint, when, due to their superior strength and initial insatiable blood-thirst, restraint doesn’t come at all easily to them. What is much more rare is being called on to get a vampire to feed, and those cases tend to be much more tricky, and rarely end well. The problem with refusers is that the more malnourished they get, the more dangerous they get because they eventually reach a point where their instinct to feed, so as not to starve, overwhelms their resolve not to feed—and then they attack, out of control. There’s a real danger they’ll drain the first human they encounter and leave them dead. Robbie sighs. “I can be with you in an hour, Ma’am.”

She sounds surprised but relieved. “Thank you, Robert. Anything you can do to help James. Obviously, I’d want the best help available for any of my officers, but James, well . . . thank you.”

He puts the phone down and starts to get his kit together.


	2. Chapter 2

When humans are turned to vampires, it’s usually under traumatic circumstances, and, not surprisingly, they can react badly. The shock and pain can traumatise even the most robust of souls, and there’s a lot of anger and fear around. There’s a lot to get used to as well: super-human senses and strength and speed, and, initially, a desperate hunger for blood. All of which can be a disastrous combination—a newly formed vampire, emotionally unstable and starving hungry, smelling warm human blood everywhere they go, with the ability to just _help themselves to a meal_ , if they so desire. There are all kinds of potential problems in the early weeks. They go to the Vampire Wellbeing Clinic to register for their regular blood packs, pick up their first month’s worth, and consume the lot in one delirious binge, making themselves nauseous and sick beyond anything a human could imagine and leaving themselves with a week-long hangover, once they come round from the blood high. Every vampire Robbie’s ever known has sworn blind that there’s no hangover like a blood hangover, and he doesn’t doubt it. 

Or, worse still, they feed from a human without consent or restraint, risking permanent damage or even death for the unfortunate soul who’s at the receiving end of their attentions. Even if they don’t drain their first human dry, they’re usually clumsy with their fangs, leaving wounds that require stitches, and, after that, scars, both physical and psychological, that never fully fade. It can take a while for new vampires to learn how to control themselves and their hunger and their newfound strength—to learn some manners.

Robbie Lewis, human, ex-copper, and widower, is just the man to teach them some manners. He’s very kind, but no-nonsense. He can be tough when he needs to be, and can come across as gruff and irritable at times, but every fledgling vampire who has had the good fortune to engage his services, is grateful for it. He works as a freelance Vampire Transition Consultant—more commonly known as a vampire sitter. Like the majority of sitters, he didn’t leave school with this career on his mind. Most sitters find their way to the work because of life experiences; a loss or some other significant event reorders their priorities. In fact the commonest reason for someone becoming a sitter is that a member of their own family becomes a vampire and needs a sitter. They watch their sibling, or perhaps their child, gradually adjust to an astonishing new life as a vampire, and they watch a sitter support their loved one and guide them through the first few difficult weeks, and they think: _I wouldn’t mind doing that_. 

Perhaps what makes Robbie Lewis such a good sitter is that like his clients, he’s known loss and pain. He doesn’t judge people for making poor decisions in difficult circumstances because he remembers all too clearly the state he was in when his beloved wife was killed in a hit and run. He remembers the drink and the ignored phone calls from well-wishers and the wanting to crawl into bed and never get out again. He knows what it’s like to believe that nothing can ever come good again; to be certain that life is at an end—or to long for it to be. But he also knows that it’s possible to do all those things, to feel all those things, and even so, almost without noticing at first, to adjust and begin to heal, and miraculously, for life to become worth living again. So he can bring a bit of understanding, a bit of kindness to his work, but also the realistic hope that people can learn how to rebuild their shattered lives. 

And if a newly turned vampire is more aggressive than downcast, if they acquire a taste for frightening the humans around them by bearing their fangs and threatening to drain them of blood, Robbie Lewis gives them a glimpse of another side of him; the side that’s faced off with murderers and other assorted hard cases. It’s very difficult to intimidate Robbie Lewis.

Sometimes, Robbie’s approached by distraught families, desperate for help with their newly turned vampire loved ones. Other times, his services are engaged through hospitals or social services, or even, occasionally, through the courts—though he won’t take on a client if working with a sitter has been made compulsory by a judge or has been put forward as a way of avoiding a custodial sentence. Other sitters have different approaches to their work, but, for Robbie, the decision to work with him has to have been freely made by the vampire. Due to the unplanned and traumatic way in which most vampires are turned, his initial contact with them sometimes isn’t their idea, but any on-going contact is decided by them, or it doesn't happen.

It’s also important that he and the vampire need to have met at least once before the contract is signed because they both have to try and determine if they’ll be able to bear spending 24 hours a day together for several weeks. Vampire sitters and their clients live together while they’re working together, and, for the first week or two, the vampire’s stress levels are through the roof, so a good rapport, some mutual liking and respect, are essential to ensure a successful outcome. This more domestic side of the job is not always easy, and not just because of the emotional state of his clients. Robbie knows he can be a real grumpy sod in the mornings, and he can be as obstinate as any newly formed vampire. But on the whole he likes the work, and though it’s a cliché that many people claim about their jobs, there truly is never a dull moment.

_____________________

The duty officer—Sergeant Grant—a sensible-seeming woman of about thirty, slides back the metal viewing hatch in the cell door, and Robbie peers in. A tall, gaunt young man, pale and drawn, who had obviously been pacing up and down the small cell, has stopped dead in his tracks and is glaring at the door.

“Don’t come in! I’ll kill you. I’m not in control of myself. I mean it.” He looks mad with hunger. He takes a step towards the door and looks directly at Robbie, his face etched with anguish. “For God’s sake, just put me out of my misery.” 

Robbie’s heart breaks for him. Hathaway looks utterly forlorn. For all the vampire’s dangerous strength Robbie feels a surge of protectiveness towards this poor, lost man. He presses his face to the hatch. “It’s all right, lad. _Easy_. I’m Robbie Lewis. Used to be a copper in Oxford meself, a long time ago. I look after new vampires now. I can help you.”

Hathaway shouts, frantic now. “No! Keep away from me. No one can help me—and I’ll kill you if you try. It’s bad enough being a monster. Don’t turn me into a murderer.” 

Robbie can’t ever remember seeing a more troubled vampire. “No one’s going to get murdered, lad, I promise you. Just give me a minute.”

He takes his jacket and tie off and gives them to Grant. He rolls his shirtsleeves up and, stepping a little way back from the cell door, he whispers to Grant, “When I nod, unlock the door, let me in, and lock the door behind me right away. Don’t open it again till I say so. Understood?”

Grant nods, her eyes wide. Innocent looks on, obviously worried. She looks more worried still when Robbie pulls the short, stubby knife out of his backpack, opens up the blade, and then carefully slides it into his trouser pocket.

“Lewis? What’s this? For Heaven’s sake; there must be other options, surely.” 

“It’s okay, Ma’am. It’s not for him. Trust me.”

She stares at him, trying to read him, and he meets her gaze, trying to look calmer than he feels. Eventually she sighs and nods. “Just—be careful.”

Robbie slings the rucksack over one shoulder and steps up to the viewing hatch again. “Right, James, I want you to stand right back by the bed.”

“No! Don’t come in!”

“Sorry, James, but I am going to come in. You can help me out or not. Up to you.” And with that he nods. Grant unlocks the door and opens it just enough for Lewis to squeeze through and then slams it shut behind him. Robbie hears the lock clank. He’s very aware that this starving vampire, with his newly heightened senses, will be able to hear the thumping of his heart, to smell his adrenalin-laced blood as it races round his body. Not for the first time, Robbie thinks he must be mad doing this job. He pulls his attention back to the task in hand—he’s going to need all his wits about him if he’s going to get him and Hathaway safely through the next few minutes.

He drops the rucksack by the door and then looks directly at Hathaway’s face just in time to see what he knew would happen—the starving vampire’s completely involuntary reaction to Robbie’s proximity—Hathaway’s fangs descend and he bares them and locks eyes with Robbie—who has just become prey. Hathaway’s nostrils flare as he breathes in the scent of warm, anxious human. He takes two slow steps towards Robbie, stalking him like a tiger silently moving into position, ready to take down an antelope separated from the herd. There’s only one way Robbie can get out of this situation alive now. His plan better bloody work. 

He slowly sinks to his knees, aware of the ache in the left one as he does—absurd to be aware of such an insignificant pain while he’s facing possible death. As he drops, he pulls his dad’s penknife from his pocket and without hesitation makes a shallow cut across the fleshy part of the inside of his right forearm. He folds the knife safely closed and drops it back in his pocket. The cut stings something terrible, but that’s the least of his problems because as expected, all hell breaks loose as Hathaway sees the blood beading along the cut. The vampire dives—literally dives—onto Robbie, pinning him to the cell floor and knocking the wind out of him. Robbie’s completely helpless now, and, if his plan doesn’t work, he’s absolutely certain he’ll be dead within the hour, steadily drained by this desperate young man; a tragic end for both of them. 

Hathaway screeches above him like the wild animal he is in this moment. He grabs Robbie’s arm very roughly, and then, to Robbie’s relief, latches onto the wound and starts lapping at the trickle of blood pulsing out of it. Thank God for that. At least for now, the vampire’s attention seems completely taken with the bit of blood Robbie has waved in front of him. It can be hard for a newly turned vampire to work out exactly how to use their fangs, and Robbie’s counting on Hathaway’s lack of experience stopping him making his own wound. Hopefully, he’ll be so enthralled with the trickle of blood coming from the cut that he won’t bother trying to work out how to get his fangs through Robbie’s tough old skin, to get a better supply of food. 

Hathaway sucks hard at the cut, which hurts like hell. “It’s okay, lad. You can have as much as you need. There’s no hurry.”

Hathaway groans, though whether it’s in response to what Robbie said, he’s got no way of telling. The vampire’s lying fully on top of him, and has Robbie’s arm bent at an awkward angle. He doesn’t half weigh something for such a skinny bloke—must be all muscle, ‘cos there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him. Robbie’s very uncomfortable, pinned to the hard cell floor like this. He pats Hathaway gently on the back. “Come on. We’re going to be here for a while. Might as well get a bit more comfortable.” 

The vampire stops feeding and lifts himself up a little. He looks down at Robbie but doesn’t let him move. It’s a tricky moment—the vampire’s instinct to keep his prey under control no doubt warring with whatever human concerns Hathaway might have about Robbie’s comfort. _And_ about lying sprawled on top of a complete stranger—and a middle-aged man at that. The vampire watches him closely for several seconds but finally shifts his weight enough that Robbie can sit up and shuffle them both back, so that he’s leaning back against the cell wall. Hathaway is still half draped over him and he’s holding tightly onto Robbie’s right arm. He keeps glancing longingly at the blood that’s smeared around the cut, no doubt unaware of the matching smears round his own mouth. 

Robbie rearranges them so the vampire’s lying with his head on Robbie’s thighs, the back of his head resting against Robbie’s belly. Robbie wraps his right arm round the vampire’s head, so the cut is right by his mouth. His left arm, he drapes over the vampire’s shoulder. The vampire pulls the cut back to his lips and, with a sigh, starts feeding again. 

Robbie could have arranged them so they had virtually no physical contact with each other, but Hathaway feels freezing, as any un-fed vampire would—they have real problems regulating their temperature without regular blood. Hathaway was turned almost two weeks ago and hasn’t fed yet; he must feel like he’s turned to ice. Whereas Robbie, who Val always complained was _like a bloody radiator_ in bed, has plenty of heat to spare. It’s Robbie’s blood that’ll actually help Hathaway warm up, but being held by a warm human while he’s feeding might make him feel a bit more comfortable.

Robbie has purposely made the cut very shallow, so there’s not actually much blood coming out. Which means that Hathaway can suck and lick for an hour or more if he wants, and there’s still no danger of Robbie losing a significant amount of blood. The only risk is if Hathaway gets frustrated with how slowly he’s having to feed, and decides to do something about it. He’s a newly turned, starving, vampire, which makes him extremely unpredictable; and Robbie doesn't know him from Adam. Even so—and Robbie’d be hard pushed to explain this rationally—he has the sense that he can trust him. That tucked away inside this powerful predator there’s a good man who will want to do the right thing. Robbie decides to explain his plan and hopes that the vampire does indeed use the information to work with him, not against him.

“James, I made the cut barely more than a scratch, so you can feed for as long as you want without draining me. If you feed like this you won’t harm me. We could stay like this for a couple of hours and it’d be no worse than me donating blood. If you make the wound bigger, or make your own wound, you’re much more likely to hurt me. Do you understand?” The vampire grunts but doesn’t stop sucking at his arm. It’s hard to tell if he’s got through to him or not. It’s just a waiting game now.

With the immediate danger over, and the pain in his arm just a dull ache now Hathaway isn’t being quite so frenzied in his feeding, Robbie’s attention can drift to other things. He looks round the cell. His backpack is where he left it, by the door. He acknowledges to himself, somewhat ruefully, that the British Association of Vampire Allied Professions would not be impressed with his decision to leave the wooden stake out of reach during his encounter with Hathaway. But he doesn’t like weapons, of any kind. Never has done; not when he was a copper, and not since. If he can’t do the job without getting all _stabby_ when things turn difficult, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. 

There’s a small, barred window set high into the far wall. Robbie can see a bit of blue through it. Surely it must make things worse, to be locked in here and be able to see the world outside, but such a tiny, unreachable scrap of the world? There are stories, of course, about vampires fearing daylight or even being damaged by it, but they’re just silly stories. It’s true that vampires have extraordinary nocturnal vision and are perfectly adapted to the shadow-black of night. But they love sunlight and warmth and blue skies as much as any human. Being here must be torture for Hathaway. 

On the narrow bed directly below the window there are a few things of Hathaway’s, which Robbie hadn’t fully registered when he first arrived: a bottle of water, a laptop, and a small stack of books. They’re too far away for him to be able to read the titles on the spines, but he recognises the book on the top of the stack, from its lurid red and gold cover. “Vampirism: God’s Punishment for a Sinful Humanity?” by Fr. Francesco Giordano, S.J., special advisor on vampirism to the Pope, no less. _Bloody great_. Of course Hathaway would have read that fear-mongering, prejudice-inciting pile of tripe.

Religious leaders have always had plenty to say about what they currently tend to refer to as _the Vampire Question_ —as if an answer is needed; as if vampires are a thorny problem for which a solution must be found. The current crop of religious responses to _the Vampire Question_ range from a kind of wet but still repellent _we should pity them; love the soul but hate the behaviour_ kind of stance, through to the horrifyingly medieval _they’re an abomination and should be put to death_. Giordano’s offering leans towards the latter, and, much to Robbie’s exasperation, has proved disturbingly popular, not least because Fr. Giordano has turned out to be something of a media tart. He keeps popping up on late night talk shows and has written numerous ‘think’ pieces for the right-wing press. In Robbie’s view, these articles don’t involve a great deal of thinking. The ones he’s read have just been rehashes of the usual misinformation and scare tactics. Astonishing really, that a bloke as bright as Hathaway is supposed to be, would be taken in by all that. But perhaps if you’ve heard this crap over and over from an early age, and then you’re turned, and you have no one to tell you otherwise? Poor sod. Robbie sighs deeply and the vampire momentarily pauses in his feeding. Robbie pats him gently on the shoulder. “It’s all right, James. Don’t mind me.”

After a couple of seconds, Hathaway resumes sucking at the cut on Robbie’s arm, and Robbie takes the opportunity to have a good look at him. Despite the horrors he must have gone through over the last two weeks, Hathaway is dressed immaculately in dark grey trousers and a white shirt, which has somehow managed to remain pristine, despite Hathaway having been rolling around on a police cell floor and feeding on blood for the last twenty minutes. How has he managed that? Robbie can end up looking scruffier than that just walking from his house to his car, some days. 

Hungry vampires tend to be on the pale side, but Hathaway’s skin is so pale, so translucent, it’s as if a shaft of moonlight is entering the cell through the tiny, high window, bathing him in unearthly, silver light. The still healing marks on the side of his face, yellow and purple like bruised fruit and storm clouds, do nothing to lessen the unearthliness of his appearance. Robbie wonders what he looked like before he was turned. Long and lean and attractive, for sure, but Robbie would bet good money that not everything about Hathaway’s hollowed-out, haunted appearance is down to having just been turned. 

The good news is that Hathaway seems a little less agitated now, but Robbie would hardly call him relaxed. All the muscles and tendons in his shoulders and neck seem to be pulled tight under his skin. His whole body feels like the taut string of a crossbow drawn back in readiness. Robbie isn’t a reckless man by any means, but there are times when he does just _jump_ ; he follows his instincts and takes action when others might not. Without giving it a lot of thought, he starts to gently rub Hathaway’s shoulder. The vampire freezes; waiting. Robbie just carries on, gently stroking Hathaway’s shoulder and upper arm through the fabric of his shirt, trying to soothe and relax him. When the vampire doesn’t object, he starts to work his fingers into the rigid muscles, gently squeezing and kneading them with his free hand. As he gets a feel for what seems to work, he squeezes and massages harder, and then Hathaway groans, softly, and just seems to melt. The tension in him starts to dissipate, like electricity safely earthed, and he softens and sinks down further into Robbie’s lap. Robbie moves his arm to follow, and the vampire starts to feed again. As he latches back on, he makes a sound; a deep rumbling sound in his chest, like a cat, purring. A big, lethal cat, mind, but still—purring! Robbie strokes the lad’s head and murmurs encouragement.

“That’s right. You take what you need. It’ll be OK now. You’ll see.”

_____________________

Eventually the sucking eases to a gentle lapping, and even that, finally, comes to an end. Hathaway sighs but doesn’t move away. He’s warm and pliant, and, to Robbie’s eyes, very beautiful. For several minutes they stay like this, Robbie propped up against the cell wall, Hathaway apparently sated and content to lie in the arms of a total stranger on a chilly, police cell floor.

Finally, Hathaway turns onto his back, his head resting on Robbie’s thighs. His fangs have fully retracted but there are a few smears of blood round his mouth, that make Robbie think of smudged lipstick. The vampire looks up at Robbie, who smiles down at him.

“How are you feeling, James?”

“Better, thank you. Less”—he searches for the precise word—“wild.” The delivery’s as dry as a bone, but Robbie would swear that there’s some humour there, though you’d need an ear for it. 

“Still feeling peckish?”

“Peckish.” Robbie’s choice of word gets him a sardonically raised eyebrow. “No, not _peckish_ , thank you, Mr Lewis.”

Robbie notes the formality, but says nothing. He could understand if Hathaway was feeling the need to establish a bit of distance, after the events of the last half hour. Hathaway continues to look at him, unblinking, his expression sober. 

“I could have killed you.”

“I know you could.”

He looks startled that Robbie doesn’t deny it. “You must have been terrified.”

Robbie shrugs. “Nah. Not really.” It’s not entirely true, but there’s no point encouraging Hathaway’s view of himself as a monster.

Hathaway raises an eyebrow, doubting him, perhaps. 

Robbie smiles down at him. “Think you’re mistaking me for one of those soft southern blokes.”

Hathaway stares at him, and then he smiles, and his pale, drawn features are transformed into something altogether lovely. 

“I won’t make that mistake again, Robbie Lewis.”

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery warning:  
> One of the main characters makes a small cut in their arm with a penknife. It is not an act of self-harm, and in fact it serves a positive function in the story, but I am warning for it because it could be triggering or distressing for readers with issues around cutting.
> 
> The title is taken from Dracula by Bram Stoker.


End file.
